


Distributed Denial of Service

by rillrill



Series: Best of Enemies [3]
Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Hate Sex, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Power Play, Rimming, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 02:12:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6781165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard hates Gavin. He <i>hates</i> him.</p><p>He's got to keep telling himself that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distributed Denial of Service

It’s been a rough week.  
  
Another series of setbacks, another set of failures. It feels like fucking _Groundhog Day_ at this point — every morning when his alarm goes off, it takes Richard another good thirty minutes to summon the energy to leave his bed. He doesn’t want to get up and face the world, and he definitely doesn’t want to get up and face Jack Barker. There are mornings where he very much considers not doing it at all.  
  
He wakes up at three in the morning on Thursday, shoots bolt upright out of bed. _YOU’RE WORTHLESS!_ screams his mind at top volume, in the old-timey newspaper-headline voice that announces all of his failures to his internal structures. _YOU’VE NEVER ACHIEVED ANYTHING YOU HAVEN’T IMMEDIATELY FUCKED UP WITH YOUR OWN INHERENT USELESSNESS!_ He tells himself to shut up, tries to shut off the _Citizen Kane_ -style whirling headlines that are spinning before his eyes, but nothing is working, and for three hours he lays two and a half feet from the ceiling, trying hard to get back to sleep and silence the vampires chanting in his brain. It doesn’t work. At seven, his alarm goes off, and it’s only the dread of what might happen if he doesn’t show up to work today — the last time he left the others alone for a few hours, he came back to the house literally on fire — that drags him into the shower, delirious with lack of sleep and angry at everything.  
  
It’s the anger that’s getting him. The simmering resentment and chip on his shoulder in regard to everyone in every part of his life right now. He’d kill to be able to put it to rest. But it’s midway through the afternoon and he’s about to start screaming out loud after another confrontation with his sales team, and the only thing that precludes it is the ding of an alert on the screen of his iMac.  
  
_New event added to Hooli Calendar,_ it informs him, and he clicks on it with some apprehension. There’s only one reason he has a Hooli calendar. It’s not because anyone in his employ prefers Hooli office tech to Google — Jared switched them all over to Google-based accounts as soon as he took charge of biz dev. The Hooli calendar is, for all intents and purposes, a secret. It’s only linked to share with one other person, and his stomach flips a little as the page instantaneously loads.  
  
_The usual - G._  
  
He swallows. He needs this. He could use this.  
  
He curls up beneath Jared’s desk — where no one will come looking for him, and because Jared certainly won’t disturb him upon perhaps discovering him — and stress-naps for a solid 45 minutes after that.  
  
It's well after nine when Richard arrives at Gavin's place. He’s on a little bit of an adrenaline spike now, nothing too out of the ordinary. The sleep deprivation is enough to make it feel like a good decision instead of the normal deliberate mistake. When he said he wanted to do something crazy for once in his life, he supposes he was thinking in the moment of parasailing or getting a tattoo. Not this. But this has become the new normal, somehow, showing up to Gavin's once a week like clockwork.  
  
He knows that for Gavin, this is all probably part of some midlife crisis, playing out some kind of rentboy fantasy without the dangers involved in hiring an actual rentboy. But then again, this is more dangerous, really — more potent, literally sleeping with the enemy — and the reality is that they both have too much at stake to play games with each other. He didn't accept Gavin's initial offer of money; doesn't know what he would do with so much if he did. He already has more than he needs. And if pressed, he'd admit that the sex itself serves a purpose. That it clears his mind, cathartic, like a good first-person-shooter or a horror film. He enjoys the physicality of it, the sheer strength Gavin wrings out of him. The way he sweats after a good session and takes deep, centering breaths, feeling almost zen. Gavin's into meditation, but this, Richard thinks, must be just as good. Meditation can't make him turn off his brain and focus on being, on the present, the way that a firm hand can.  
  
So he shows up to Gavin's a little after nine, glances at the Teslas parked in the garage, never understood why he needs more than one. Gavin lets him in through the garage door and takes him in through the kitchen. "Water?" he asks, and Richard shrugs, thinks about it.  
  
"Sure," he says. "Okay. Yeah."  
  
Gavin pulls a bottle of Voss from the fridge, which is passcode-locked. It seems as though everything in his home is some sort of Hooli-designed code prototype, not all of which present a convenience. Richard accepts the water bottle, twists off the titanium-colored cap. Wonders why everything in this house is made of matte metal.  
  
"The matte finish means fewer fingerprints," Gavin says, and off Richard's look of what must be evident bewilderment, adds: "You did say that out loud, yes."  
  
"Ah." Richard doesn't answer, just takes a gulp and looks around. Gavin's evident boner for minimalism gives the whole place a kind of barren coolness, hinging on icy cold. It doesn't look lived-in at all, which he supposed is the point. It looks like he lives in a bachelor pad on Hoth.  
  
Gavin crosses around the kitchen island, lays both hands on Richard's sides. Trails them down, slowly, to the smallest part of his waist. "Should I ask how someone within your company fucked up today?"  
  
"You know I can't talk about that." He wants his irritation to be more firm, but Gavin's breath is hot in his ear as he leans in, and Richard bites back a traitorous little shiver that his body has no business performing.  
  
Gavin chuckles. "How about we don't talk at all, then?"  
  
"Fine," Richard mutters, and tilts his head to the left. Gavin trails his lips over Richard's neck and gently tongues his earlobe. Hands digging into his hips as Gavin pulls him closer. Richard braces himself on the kitchen island, steadies himself. Takes a deep breath. Takes another as Gavin takes his earlobe between his teeth and sucks it gently.  
  
This is weird. He furrows his brow even as his body responds to whatever the fuck this is. Gavin's taking his time, his thumb and forefinger rubbing lazy circles on the slice of hip he's pushed Richard's sweater up to expose. It's not frantic, or angry; it's calm and almost languid, as if Gavin is taking his time on purpose. Savoring it.  
  
"Uh," Richard mutters. He shifts his hips back a little further, obvious and needy against Gavin, and feels the press of his erection there. This really isn't what he came here for. It's having the exact opposite effect, in fact, putting him on edge. There's no way this isn't some kind of -  
  
"What do you want, Richard?" Gavin's voice is gravelly and rough, right up against his ear, and Richard's body responds in turn even despite his brain's protestations.  
  
"I want you to be mean," Richard says, which is normally their code. The phrase that means, _Fucking do it already_. But Gavin clicks his tongue, says nothing. He just keeps kneading against the knob of Richard's exposed hipbone, breath trailing along his neck as he drags his lips downward, then back up again. The wet press of a tongue again, just behind his earlobe, and Richard almost yelps, his cock aching with how much more he wants of this. It's entirely not enough; Gavin is definitely aware of this.  
  
Gavin slips his index finger into the waist of Richard's pants, running it along the sensitive skin there to meet the button of his fly. His hips press up against Richard's ass, their bodies flush together now as Gavin reaches to take him around the waist with both arms, hands poised at his fly but held still and steady. Fucker. Richard grinds back against him, insistent and not taking wait for an answer: Gavin, again, does nothing but lick a stripe up the shell of his ear. He was entirely unaware of Gavin's evident ear thing  until tonight. He's not entirely against it, but —  
  
"I told you already," Richard says, his voice turning uncomfortably petulant. "C'mon. Be mean."  
  
Gavin chuckles as he takes his hands away, places them firmly on Richard's hips and spins him around. Face to face, Richard swallows. Gavin is looking at him like a fresh piece of veal, licking his lips. And then he chuckles.  
  
"Are you hungry?" he asks Richard, who blinks quickly as he watches Gavin step away to the refrigerator.  
  
"Uh?" Richard shakes his head. "I don't know." He doesn't know. He can't remember when he ate last, so probably, he is, but he wouldn't know —  
  
"I had food delivered earlier." Gavin removes two takeout containers from the fridge and sets them on the counter. "Macro-paleo. Eat with me."  
  
"I don't want to eat," Richard says, still confused but at least truthful. He came here for a reason, and this is — aggressively _not that reason_ —  
  
"But I do," says Gavin, a condescending shrug punctuating the statement. "You told me to be mean. So I'm making you wait. Have dinner with me."  
  
"I didn't come here to have dinner—“  
  
"So go," Gavin shrugs again. He opens the containers, his normal air of disinterest returning to his demeanor. "You don't have to stay. I'm not going to have sex with you right now, Richard. You can wait or you can go. I don't really care much either way, but the choice is yours."  
  
The kitchen is silent but for the hum of the fridge, and Richard shifts his jaw, cracks his neck where it's painfully tense. He's still turned on, and he hates that this is only heightening how Gavin has just worked him up, but he doesn't know how else to proceed. He's going to get off by Gavin's hand, regardless of what it takes. "Fine," he says after a moment, and slides onto a stool at the kitchen island. "I'll have some of that. I guess."  
  
Gavin gives him a mild smile. "Good," he says placidly. "Now you're getting it."  
  
Sharing dinner seems too — intimate, domestic, it's whatever the word he's looking for — to do with a billionaire ex-employer who has made it his new life's mission to destroy him professionally, even if he does have a standing weekly sex arrangement with said billionaire ex-employer. It feels like a breach of etiquette. It feels like something you do with someone you're _seeing_ , and he's sure as fuck not _seeing_ Gavin. This isn’t _dating_. Still, though — he chokes down the food without tasting it; trying to think about something besides his dick. The conversation is knowing and almost playful, on Gavin's end —  
  
"So," he says, taking a sip of Richard's bottled water before continuing. "Your personal life. You don't talk about it."  
  
Richard rolls his eyes. "There's not a lot to talk about."  
  
"You need hobbies," Gavin says. "What do you do in your free time?"  
  
_What free time?_ Richard is tempted to snort, but instead he spreads his arms and shrugs, "This."  
  
It was the wrong answer of the two choices; he knows that as soon as he sees Gavin's eyebrow go up in piqued interest. "That's flattering, Richard," he says, low and slimy. "I'm so honored."  
  
"Ugh." Richard shakes his head and pushes his half-empty plate away from him. "I'm done with this, thanks."  
  
The edges of Gavin's mouth curl up into a bracketed smile, and Richard is perplexed by how a man who looks and behaves so much like the Grinch who stole Christmas could possibly turn him on. "Bound and gagged by a sexy Grinch" was never on his list of fantasies, until apparently that became the only thing that really gets him satisfyingly off.  
  
Gavin squeezes his leg and he feels a hot flush all over his body. "Good," he says, and Richard takes a steadying breath. "I'm not."  
  
  
  
It's an interminable half an hour before Gavin finishes his quinoa in short, sharklike bites and gets up abruptly. "Come," he says, and Richard swallows a retort and he follows him toward the bedroom.  
  
"Finally," Richard says as he crosses the threshold, and Gavin turns back to him with a little sneer.  
  
“Getting impatient?" he asks.  
  
Richard kicks off one of his shoes, and then the other. "Only because you made me sit there for almost an hour while you pretended that quinoa tastes good."  
  
Gavin chuckles, rolling up one sleeve, and the other to reveal his stupid wristful of bracelets. "You needed a refresher in who calls the shots between us," he says, and Richard shifts his weight, bobbing in place like a fighter finding his stance.  
  
"Maybe you shouldn't be the one in charge," he says, "if you can't even give me what I come here for."  
  
He knows as soon as he's said it that the words landed right where he intended. Questioning Gavin's leadership, his decision-making skills — it sticks right between his narcissistic, megalomaniacal ribs. And Gavin, for his part, responds just as Richard expects: he takes another step forward, and then another, crowding into Richard's space and making him feel small.  
  
"Say that again," he says, part challenge and part command. Implicit follow-up: _You're not going to_. But Gavin knows fuck-all about what Richard will or won't do.  
  
"I said," Richard repeats, "maybe you shouldn't be in charge, since you're doing a pretty fucking bad job at it."  
  
Gavin's eyes flash angry and there's poison on his breath as he grabs Richard by the jaw, making his heart rate involuntarily quicken, beating rabbit-fast. "I don't think you're in any place to be making calls like that, Richard," he growls, and Richard swallows. He's hard in his pants again, getting harder, his pulse is pounding. He narrows his eyes and spits the words back in Gavin's face:  
  
"Neither are you."  
  
He lets himself be led, pushed, back onto the ergonomic foam mattress. If Gavin knows he's being manipulated, he's not letting on. Richard is leading, leaning into the moment, and Gavin, finally, isn’t moving at that slow, torturous pace.  
  
Gavin sheds his clothes furiously, yanking off his belt with an angry sort of haste, kicking his pants across the room. His tan sweater is the next to go, and then the tight t-shirt beneath it, and Richard licks his lips involuntarily as Gavin crawls atop him on the bed. The kiss that ensues is angry, punishing, all teeth sinking into lower lips and Gavin’s fingers pulling hard at Richard’s hair — and Richard gasps into his open mouth, thrusting up against his boxer briefs, all of his clothes too hot and too tight and too much at once, he needs out of them, he’s gonna crawl out of his skin with how much he _wants_.  
  
It’s a clumsy dance, getting his own clothes off, and Gavin only barely deigns to help out, tossing the sweater across the immaculate bedroom to join his own pants, then starting in on Richard’s cords with a sort of practiced sneer. He finds himself wishing he’d worn something sexier, somehow, than corduroys and boxers with dachshunds on them. He clenches his jaw, waiting for Gavin to mock those, too, but —  
  
“Cute,” Gavin chuckles, then rips them down his thighs. Richard blinks. He’s not here to be called cute.  
  
“You’re such a fucking dick,” he says through gritted teeth. Gavin raises both eyebrows, grabs both of Richard’s skinny thighs and spreads his legs wide.  
  
“Keep them like that,” Gavin says roughly as he dives down to the sheets, and then he’s grabbing Richard by either side of his ass and pulling him forward, lifting him up off the bed and bringing him right to his mouth. Richard closes his eyes, tries not to make noise, tries not to give Gavin any undue confidence, but as Gavin swipes his tongue over his entrance, teasing at first and then with more assurance, Richard digs his fingers into the bedsheets. Fuck, he doesn’t want to respond to this — wants to keep playing this game of angry chicken, but —  
  
“Shit.” He hears the word-shaped noise escape his mouth before he realizes he’s saying it, and Gavin pulls back, takes Richard’s hips firmly in either hand, and turns him bodily onto all fours. Richard can only let it happen, presses his face into the pillow and arches his back upward as Gavin reaches down to fist his dick, gives it a couple light pumps before diving back into his task, a man on a mission.  
  
Richard hates him. He fucking _hates_ him, and he says so — “You’re such a dick,” he repeats, “I hate you,” and he hears Gavin chuckle against the sensitive skin before he licks a stripe clear up to his tailbone. Richard feels Gavin close his mouth over his hole, and then his tongue stiffens and presses inside, and his hands are everywhere, stroking over his body, unpredictable enough to put him even further on edge and his cock fucking _aches_. It’s way too much and it’s not enough, and he hears himself make an embarrassing squeaking sound as Gavin fucks him with his tongue. The only way to rectify that is to say something else, Richard thinks, but he can’t form words, so he presses his face against the crook of his elbow, biting down on his forearm to keep that noise from escaping again.  
  
“Tell me why you’re here,” Gavin instructs, and Richard lifts his head, staring at the half-moon of teeth marks in his forearm.  
  
He knows what Gavin wants him to say, knows what he expects, but he’s beyond it at this point, angry and sex-stupid all at once. “I came here to get fucked,” he mutters petulantly, “and you’re doing a pretty fucking bad job at it so far.”  
  
Gavin smacks his ass at that, once, hard, and he registers the noise before the crack of pain that goes straight to his dick. It hits him in an arc that shoots up his spine, making him curve inward and then arch his back for more, like a tectonic wave — an S-curve. He pants, rubs his forehead mindlessly against the bedsheets. “Fuck,” Richard groans. “Now you’re getting the idea.”  
  
“You don’t tell me what to do,” Gavin says, but his voice sounds the slightest bit unsure — there’s a little waver to it — and Richard chuckles, low and harsh at that.  
  
“Maybe you’d be better at it if I did,” he challenges. “Fuck me, Gavin. You — you know that’s all you’re good for.”  
  
He feels, rather than hears, Gavin go for the lube in the drawer, the disturbance in the air around him enough of an indication. And then there’s two fingers inside of him, rough and unyielding, and he has no choice but to yield to them instead — two,for what feels like the briefest moment, before Gavin’s pressing inside him with his cock instead.  
  
Richard gasps into the bedsheets, his eyes still clenched shut — it’s a lot, yet the slow pace of it still doesn’t feel like enough. He feels his back pop from the way he’s arching it, and heaves himself up onto his elbows to account for the angle as he feels Gavin bottom out inside him.  
  
The thing isn’t that Gavin’s huge — he’s not, medium at best — but he feels a lot bigger for the first few moments. “Fuck,” Richard mutters, and then “ _fuck_ ” again as Gavin digs all ten fingers hard into his hips and starts to fuck him. It’s immediately not enough, and he groans out loud again.  
  
It occurs to him to push this further. That he can have what he wants if he goes after it. So he bites the bullet, consequences be damned, and goes for it —  
  
“Lazy motherfucker,” he grits out, and then “god, Gavin, fuck me, don’t fucking play with me—”  
  
“Who’s playing, you entitled little bitch?” Richard bites back a smile of self-satisfaction as Gavin picks up the goddamned pace. _I am_. Played him like a chess piece. Not bad for a bluff. He braces himself against the bed, twists his head to the side to spit his next few lines.  
  
“That’s right, fuck me,” he stammers as their hips slam together. “Show me what you’re good for.” He’s playing with fire, he knows that, he’s never been so bratty with Gavin before — he’s kind of shocked that he’s getting away with it, to be honest. But Gavin’s taking it to heart, apparently, and fucking him like he’s really trying to earn it. Oh, that’s good — he’ll use that. “Fuck me like you want to earn that come,” he hears himself saying, and Gavin groans out loud. _Shit._ Richard’s never heard him make _that_ noise before. This is —  
  
“C’mon,” he keeps saying, “give me that dick, make me feel it,” and Gavin’s fucking him relentlessly now, probably couldn’t go much faster or harder if he tries. But that doesn’t mean Richard’s giving up.  
  
“I want to feel it,” he keeps repeating, and he feels Gavin’s hand close over his dick, pump him roughly. He feels it in his balls, feels himself start to tighten up, teetering on the edge. He’s closer than he thought — he groans, feels Gavin fucking him in time with his hand, incredible how he can do that, multitasking. Gavin’s treating him like a game, like a fucking Rubik’s cube, multiple approaches at once to find the key, the code, to crack the easiest way to the center —  
  
His orgasm hits him sideways, pummels him like a boxer, and he groans free and open as he spills into Gavin’s rough hand. It overtakes him, washes over him, pulls him under; he’s nothing but Gavin’s cock, fucking him through it in long, aggressive strokes, and his hand, working him for every drop he’s got, and. And.  
  
“Fuck _you_ ,” Gavin mutters in his ear, falling forward to drape over Richard’s back, and his hips, somehow, speed up even further — there are teeth in his shoulder, biting down hard, and he keeps going, his pace long past pounding and into something beyond that. Richard is less than nothing now. Gavin’s change in angle means that he’s hitting Richard’s prostate firmly with every stroke, and he’s fucking him relentlessly, and the fucking old dude can go forever, he’s all self-control and white-hot rage and no no no, this isn’t even fucking possible, this has never happened, he just came, it shouldn’t —  
  
The world tightens, tightens, tightens.  
  
His cock jerks, confused and delirious.  
  
It’s too much, every bit of it, his skin is too tight all over and his extremities are numb and he wouldn’t be able to focus his eyes if he tried.  
  
And with a scream he only half muffles into his bruise-bitten forearm, he comes, again, dry and sharp and altogether _too much_.  
  
And then everything goes black, for a moment, as he collapses bodily onto the bed.  
  
  
He comes to a moment later, vaguely aware of Gavin pulling out, tying off the condom and dropping it into the basket beside the bed. He can’t move. His arms won’t move, he has no control over any of his muscles anymore. He feels himself shiver a little, before there’s a blanket over his body, up to his shoulders, and Gavin arranging himself around him like a boa constrictor, curling up around its next victim.  
  
His cheek is pressed against the mattress, and he lifts his head just enough to accept the pillow being slid underneath it. “Unnecessary,” he finally says.  
  
“Mm.” Gavin sounds pretty fucking pleased with himself, and Richard hates himself for giving him the opportunity to feel this way. He tries to raise one hand off the bed, bat away the arm snaking around his waist, but it feels too fucking good, and his muscle control is still not entirely his own, and so he lets it rest.  
  
“Totally not necessary,” he says again. “One’s enough.”  
  
“I will admit,” says Gavin dryly, “I was quite taken aback by that turn of events myself.” Richard squeezes his eyes shut as his face flushes with warmth. He feels Gavin let out a breathy chuckle, press a kiss to his shoulder. “Freckles,” Gavin says with vague interest, and Richard knows of the ones on his shoulders but doesn’t want to talk about them. Too intimate. Too much like something you’d discuss with someone you’re —  
  
“We’re not dating,” he says out loud, and he feels Gavin yank away, abrupt, and it’s like he’s just doused the whole fucking situation with a bucket of ice water.  
  
“Obviously,” says Gavin, _Deep Space 9_ cold. Cryogenic. Richard wants to sit up, he starts to do so, but he feels a wide, rough hand splay between his shoulder blades, and he allows himself to be gentled back down to the mattress. Gavin leaves his hand there for a moment, warm and heavy, and Richard’s heart is still rattling in his chest but it feels less like a moment of catastrophe as their little boat rights itself in the swell of the tidal wave it’s just ridden.  
  
“I haven’t been sleeping well,” Richard hears himself confessing. “It’s been — the last week.”  
  
Gavin laughs, but it’s not as mocking as it could be. It’s almost affectionate. Richard prays that it isn’t. “Welcome to management,” he murmurs, and then, “I have something that will help you sleep. If you want.”  
  
Richard lifts one shoulder in an indifferent shrug. “I don’t react well to — well, Ambien, melatonin, NyQuil, whatever. Benadryl puts me out but it gives me weird dreams.”  
  
“I’ve recently discovered a new favorite prescription,” Gavin says. “Belsomra. You’ve heard of it, maybe. I will admit, I was drawn to it by the name alone, but I find it produces a guiltless sleep.”  
  
Richard blinks. “It’s not guilt. Guilt’s not the problem.”  
  
“But anxiety is,” Gavin says knowingly, and Richard tenses, his stomach roiling. Gavin’s hand between his shoulder blades twitches a little, fingers stroking over the sensitive skin there, and he doesn’t move. He doesn’t say anything. “Let me guess. You wake up in the middle of the night and you can’t shut your brain off? You can’t stop focusing on all your perceived missteps throughout the past few days. You feel like everyone in the world is hyperfocused on your failures and is just waiting for you to shit the bed so hard that you’ll never recover.”  
  
“Um,” Richard says.  
  
Gavin says nothing. He drops a kiss between Richard’s shoulder blades and sits up, pads across the room and to the doorway. “You can stay here tonight,” he says. “Or I’ll send you home with a week’s supply. Your choice.”  
  
Richard pushes himself back up on his forearms, furrowing his brow as he looks at Gavin in the bedroom doorway. He looks strangely guileless, normally perfectly-coiffed hair just a little bit messy, looking tired and somehow, surprisingly _human_.  
  
“I don’t think I should drive right now,” Richard says weakly. “I’m really tired.”  
  
Gavin’s lips curl into that Grinchlike smile again, and he nods once, sharply. “Fair,” he says. “I’ll wake you at six.”  
  
“I normally get up at seven.”  
  
“I get up at five,” Gavin says. “I’ll wake you after my sun salutations. Make yourself comfortable, Richard.”  
  
He disappears down the hall after that, and Richard falls back down onto the bed, his body tingling with exhaustion. He feels sleep beginning to tug at him, and it’s an easier slide than he’s used to, this time — he shuts his eyes, just for a moment, just until Gavin gets back.  
  
It’s through a haze of half-wakefulness that he feels Gavin climb back into bed beside him. Richard keeps his eyes shut, doesn’t move, doesn’t fight whatever force is pulling him down under the waves. He feels a jerky pause, and then an arm draped over his back and a chaste kiss pressed to his shoulder.  
  
It’s the clearest sleep he’s had in weeks.  
  
It’s only in the morning that he realizes: he fell asleep before he could take any pill at all.  
  
He hates Gavin. He _hates_ him.  
  
He’s got to keep telling himself that.


End file.
